Breathless
by Haley94
Summary: Jamie and Renzulli split up while clearing a building.  They need to remember not to do that again.  A multi-part story for Lilynette, now complete.
1. Chapter 1

**Breathless**

**Author's Note:** This is one is for Lilynette, who requested this particular scenario. I hope I did you proud! Thanks for being such a cool online friend. :) It's worth mentioning that I am not a police officer and have absolutely no law enforcement experience, so I hope I got procedure at least sort-of right in this story. If I didn't, please accept my version as a creative liberty that made this story possible. Also, I wrote this while listening to an exclusive mix of Frank Sinatra's "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" and Boyce Avenue's "No Air." Highly recommended! Merry Christmas and happy holidays to you all, and I hope you enjoy this latest adventure for our favorite NYPD family.

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><p>Jamie Reagan had made the decision to become a cop on a crisp day in September, when he stood in a funeral home in Greenwich Village and looked into his brother's face for the last time. He hadn't told anyone about it until almost a month later, and it hadn't gone so well when he did. He had been in a Starbucks, of all places, slumped at a little table with a lovely view of the Upper East Side but staring down into his frappuccino instead, while his best friend Will Morgan stared at <em>him<em>. "You do realize that you could get a job at any firm you want, right? Dickstein, Baker and McKenzie, Orrick... didn't Vinson and Elkins call you again yesterday?"

"Yeah."

"Vinson and Elkins doesn't call _anybody_, Jamie. Let alone twice."

"I know."

"But you, you're going to ignore them and go to the police academy instead." Will sat back, his own iced latte forgotten. He had just started as a first-year at Dorsey & Whitney and looked the part, cutting a sharp figure in a black Gieves suit and with his dark hair properly coifed. Dressed in jeans and a hoodie, Jamie sank a bit deeper into his own seat. "Jamier, seriously... you're throwing it all away."

"I'm not throwing anything away."

"Are you kidding me? Four years at _Harvard?_ Three years of law school? Your parents paid for that so you could go to the _police academy?_"

Jamie shifted uncomfortably. "I'm not joining the circus, Will."

"Hey, there's nothing wrong with becoming a cop, believe me. I like cops," Will added, pressing his hands to his chest with such an earnest expression that Jamie might have laughed in another circumstance. "But most cops don't take a seven-year detour, especially to Harvard and law school. I think you're a little too far down this road to change your mind."

"No, I'm not. And my parents didn't pay for much. Most of those loans are mine."

"All the more reason for you to get your head on straight and your career started," Will insisted, shaking his head. "Jamie, think about everything you've invested. You can't-"

"I always wanted to be a cop," he interrupted flatly. "My mom didn't want it for me. I never thought it was a big deal - lawyer, cop, whatever - but... I need to do this. You know how it is in my family anyway. My grandfather, my dad, Danny, Joe-" His throat involuntarily closed around his older brother's name, and the grief swelled, hot and desperate, in his chest.

"Hey," Will said, his voice gentling, and Jamie didn't dare look up for fear of seeing the pity in his eyes. "Listen. I know how hard this has been on you, man."

Jamie shook his head fiercely. "It's not that, either. I've been thinking about this for a while, really. And now... there's just no choice, Will. I think about what my grandpa and dad did out there, and about my brothers... it just makes me sick to think of being a lawyer. I have to be out there, you know? I need to be out there."

Will looked down at himself, then up at Jamie. "Dude, you just need to give it some time, you know?"

"You don't understand."

"You're right. I don't." Will leaned forward on the table, looking Jamie in the eye. "You spent seven years of your life, and God knows how much money, to become a lawyer, and now you're going to make thirty-five thousand dollars a year to get yelled at, spit on, and shot at? Do you know what an average cop's day is even like? Ten hours of boredom, half an hour of getting verbally assaulted by the people you're trying to help, twenty-five minutes of walking around covered in other people's bodily fluids, and five minutes of sheer terror while you're in danger of your life. That what you're looking for?"

Jamie traced a finger around the lid of his coffee cup. "I've spent my life around the force. It may not always be black and white, but it's about helping people. It's always been about helping people."

Will sat back, shaking his head. "You can't help people in a courtroom?"

He tried to smile, but had forgotten how. "Where's the fun in that?"

And though Will had eventually gotten used to the idea of seeing his law school buddy in uniform with a gun at his side, for his part Jamie had never forgotten Will's words. Some days, sitting in Washington Square Park watching Renzulli eat pastries or walking beside him over block after block of New York City pavement, they seemed almost prophetic. "Don't worry about it, kid," Renzulli had said to him once with a saucy smile. "Those moments of sheer terror your friend talked about more than make up for the down time. Pass me a napkin, would ya?"

As it turned out, Renzulli was right.

...

The call came in at 11:26 p.m. as a squatter complaint. It was on 17th Street just west of Avenue of the Americas, in a squat, empty two-story brick building just behind a T-Mobile store. Jamie had already been on several of these calls, and he hated them. On the off chance they actually did find someone, it was almost always a shabbily dressed man or woman with a small, carefully guarded pile of possessions, and their gaunt faces and bleary, pleading eyes cut him to the bone. Even when they found no one, the lingering odors of decay and stale urine in the empty buildings were overwhelming, and he would cough into the crook of his arm and remind himself once again that yes, this was exactly what he wanted to be doing.

Jamie stepped out of the squad car and closed the door behind him, shivering in the cold evening air. "This timing kinda sucks," he observed, peering up at the rundown building. Its upstairs windows were inched open, and the heavy, windowless door that served as the only street entrance was open a crack.

"Whadaya mean?" Renzulli whipped out his flashlight as he spoke, running the light across a graffiti-covered mailbox before shining it carefully over the door. The streetlamp across the street provided only weak light, and shadows danced in the beam Renzulli cast.

"It's Christmas," Jamie shrugged. "You just hate to run people out on a holiday, you know?"

Renzulli observed him skeptically. "Three things," he said, tucking his flashlight under his arm as he dug in his coat pocket for his gloves. "Number one? Crime knows no holiday, and squatting is a crime. I mean, we ain't gonna give 'em twenty years, but they're still trespassing, like it or not. Number two, there's a Salvation Army two blocks from here that can actually give these homeless guys a cot and a warm meal. We're doing 'em a favor."

"And number three?"

"Number three, it ain't Christmas. Get your days straight."

"It's December twenty-third," Jamie protested. "And it'll be Christmas Eve soon enough. It probably already is."

"Yeah," Renzulli begrudgingly allowed, nodding as Jamie switched on his own flashlight. "How I got stuck with this shift I have no idea. I can see a boot like you having to work it, but I'm supposed to be beyond this kind of crap."

"The holiday pay's not bad."

"Sure, but I could be home right now with a beer and my feet up." He paused; grimaced. "And the wife's homemade eggnog. Yeah, you're right, Reagan. This is better."

Jamie snorted and approached the building carefully, taking his cue from Renzulli. "Just like before?"

He nodded. "Follow my lead," he said, and knocked heavily on the wooden door. "Police!" he shouted, his deep voice booming into the building's darkness. "Anybody home?" He expertly got the door open and swept his flashlight across the room, taser in hand but held surreptitiously at his side. Jamie followed obediently, using his own light to coax out the corners of the room, peering carefully around stacks of dusty boxes and a few banged-up, neglected pieces of furniture. Their initial sweep turned up nothing more interesting than a stack of newspapers from 2008, and Renzulli sighed, flashing his beam of light up the staircase. "I think we got nothing down here, kid. I'm gonna check the upstairs. Why don't you take another peek in the back, make sure those windows are secure?"

"Yeah." Jamie remained sharp, his senses cranked a twist tighter than usual, keeping his flashlight firm in his left hand and weapon in his right. "You don't want me to come with?"

"I'll holler if I need ya," he replied with an easy grin. "You do the same."

Jamie nodded, remaining by the cracked banister until Renzulli had successfully cleared the landing, his voice bouncing off the torn drywall. Jamie took another quick look around himself before moving back down the hallway, side-stepping a broken light fixture as he returned to the quiet pair of storage rooms at the back of the building.

He hesitated in the doorway, taking another look across the small, dark room as he holstered his weapon. Weak light filtered in from the high, small windows, and a few piles of unidentifiable junk, their edges muddled by the dimness, hunkered down in far corners by the wall. Jamie moved quietly across the still room, avoiding the piles, his eyes lifted up to focus on the small metal fasteners at the base of the dirty glass windows.

His first and only warning was a sudden blur of motion as something flashed past his eyes, from above to below; something thin, dark and moving fast. He jerked his arms up toward his face instinctively, but there was no time. Half a second, only enough time to blink, and he was startled and only beginning to toe the line of _oh shit_ when his breath was gone and a cord, strong and vicious, was digging deeply into his throat.

Panic flared in a single, brilliant burst, but he hadn't spent week after week getting his butt kicked in hand-to-hand training (and years and years getting turned ass-over-teakettle by Joe's and Danny's roughhousing) to let it take over. His training and instinct kicked in, and he jerked hard to the right, twisting and dropping his shoulder, trying to wrestle out of the strangling grip. Intellectually, he knew the first few moments were the most critical. He'd heard it over and over through the years, but now, now that he couldn't breathe _at all_, not in and not out, his throat twisted closed like a faucet, it was all suddenly much more real.

He lurched backwards, shoulders colliding with a broad, muscled chest. His senses leapt into overdrive and he was suddenly hyper-aware of his attacker's huge, looming presence behind him (_how the hell did I not hear this guy?_). The man grunted with the effort as he jerked back harshly on the cord, yanking it tighter and nearly lifting Jamie off his feet.

Jamie could see nothing, hear nothing. He felt only the rapid thunder of his own heartbeat as he struggled for air that would not come, and felt the crushing power in his attacker's grip. The man was trembling with exertion as he pulled back, back, back, his cord digging ever deeper. And Jamie couldn't make a sound; there was no way to let the Sarge, wherever he was, know what was happening. He was alone in the dark with two hundred pounds of muscle, every fiber of which seemed dead-set on strangling him to death and he just couldn't _breathe_.

He'd been snagged in chokeholds before, and once he'd choked on a piece of candy as a kid. But he had never felt anything like this. The burning pain of the cord's sinking bite into his neck was distant and not nearly so worrisome as his awful, all-consuming desperation for air. His lungs were crackling for it, and his mind was turning inside out, swelling and bleeding against the inside of his skull. He couldn't even think, but a last gasp of instinct served him well, funneling energy to his arm so he could drive his right elbow back powerfully, once, twice, three times into the man's stomach.

Nothing. His attacker didn't give. He didn't flinch. If anything, his grip _tightened_.

Jamie scrabbled for his own throat, striking against one of the man's bulging, straining forearms as he did. He tried desperately to hook his fingers around the cord, nails tearing into his own skin. He clawed with the strength he had left.

His head was heavy, stuffed with wet rags.

Sparks of color were flaring at the edges of his wavering vision, pricking the darkness like fireflies.

His hands and feet were tingling; he was losing feeling.

He could _not_ die like this.

But his world had narrowed to nothing but the explosion in his head and the desperation for air that would not come, and it occurred to him in some tiny, quiet, reflective sliver of his mind that he was, in fact, dying like this.

His attacker was speaking now, hissing words in Jamie's ear, but he was past being able to understand them. His vision was hot and black. He heard only the pounding of blood in his ears, growing louder and increasingly frantic, and his head felt like it was swelling to twice its normal size. He had to breathe and he couldn't breathe, and his body was going limp, loose, turning itself over to the darkness.

Something was happening behind him, but he couldn't comprehend what.

The pressure on his neck tightened suddenly, cranking a notch deeper, but the sensation and resulting pain was removed. Distant. Happening to somebody else.

Then the pressure was gone, and while he would never remember dropping to the ground, he was unexpectedly hit with a wash of pain so brilliant that he he thought for a second that his throat was slashed, and suddenly he could breathe again. His throat was cut glass and he was inhaling fire in tiny, fractured gasps-

-but he could _breathe_.

...

Later, Renzulli would lie awake and wonder what might have happened if he'd walked into that room only a minute later than he did.

It was the surest way to drive himself crazy; he knew that for sure. But he couldn't help but think of how easily he had walked down that staircase, relaxed, unhurried, his guard down, and what would have happened if he hadn't heard that strange, rough voice from the dark rooms deep within the first floor.

But heard it he did, and as concern ratcheted up and his steps quickened, he realized that what he did _not_ hear was his rookie partner.

A moment later, he knew why.

Renzulli stepped into the doorway, flashlight in one hand and taser in the other, and the powerful beam painted across the back of a muscled man in a heavy dark coat, his hair shorn close to the scalp in a military cut, sweat beading along the pale skin of his neck. The muscles of his back and shoulders were bulging with an effort that Renzulli couldn't see. "Police!" he barked. "Get your hands in the air!"

The man turned a little, both his body and head pivoting.

And that was when Renzulli saw Jamie caught up against the man's chest, limp as a rag doll, a black electrical cord pulled taut across his throat.

Renzulli's heart lurched, eyes widening in horror, and his hands tightened around the taser. "Drop him!" he ordered.

The man only moved to twist away. His grip was punishing, and all the torque was resting right across the front of his partner's neck.

Renzulli didn't think. He didn't need to think.

He aimed and he fired.

The probes landed true, and the man seized when the electricity struck him, freezing him in place. Renzulli released the trigger, and they fell in tandem - the burly man to the ground in a heap, still twitching, and Jamie dropping beside him, loose and unresponsive.

Renzulli lurched forward, dropping the taser and snatching his handcuffs from his belt. He dug a knee into the attacker's back as the man coughed on the ground, groaning from the effects of the electricity through his body. "Reagan," Renzulli said sharply, giving the man only a cursory frisk for weapons. "Kid, you all right?"

There was no response, and Renzulli swore as he snapped the cuffs home and scrambled over the perp's sprawled body. "Jamie," he said, and grabbed the kid's shoulders from where he lay, twisted up, on the ground. He could barely see him in the darkness. _Please, God, don't let him be dead._ "Jamie?"

The cough that followed, so weak it might have been a sigh, was music to his ears. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, just breathe, kid. I got ya." Keeping one hand on Jamie's shoulder, he keyed his shoulder mike. "Twelve-sergeant, 10-13 at Seventeenth and Sixth. I've got an officer down, suspect in custody." He ignored dispatch's quick response and the sudden, cutting tones that followed over the radio, a signal to all officers and emergency personnel in the area to drop what they were doing and get to Renzulli's side. The only thing in the world that mattered to him right now was right in front of him, his partner, lying still in the darkness. "Kid," he said again, and gently turned Jamie onto his back. "Can you give me a sign here?"

The kid was still breathing; he heard the whistling sound of his crushed, strangled breaths. Leaning over, Renzulli snagged his flashlight from where it had rolled to a stop a short distance away, and he caught Jamie's face in part of the glow, careful to not blind him with it. Jamie's eyes were closed, but his chest was heaving. The cord had fallen away across his shoulder, and the impression mark was an angry red line, cut clean across the front of his throat. "Jesus," Renzulli muttered. "Kid, I've got help on the way. Are you okay?"

Jamie's eyes fluttered open, and the expression in them was pained and exhausted.

"Don't try to talk," Renzulli warned quickly.

Jamie's mouth quirked up in a half-smile, but it faded quickly when he coughed, dry and scratchy. He twisted onto his side and reached for his throat.

"Hey, uh-uh," Renzulli said, grabbing his partner's wrist. "Don't touch it, kid. Just keep breathing. EMT's are a couple minutes out."

Jamie managed a nod of understanding, and Renzulli's seized heart relaxed a fraction. "You know you scared me to death."

The kid's eyes flicked over to him drolly. _Yeah, scared me a little too,_ was written on his face.

"Trying to steal my stuff!" the suspect screamed suddenly, overly loud and with a sharpness that made them both jump. "Nobody else gonna steal my stuff!"

"Shut up!" Renzulli ordered, edging himself over to put his own body between the suspect's and Jamie's. "Jeez, kid, you hear this crackhead?"

Jamie nodded again. Renzulli still had hold of Jamie's wrist but Jamie reached for his battered throat with the other, and since his eyes were clear Renzulli didn't stop him. Instead, he watched in pained sympathy as Jamie's fingers prodded cautiously at the deep, bruising line seared across his windpipe. "Still breathing okay, kid?"

He nodded. He knew better than to try making a sound.

"Just stay where you are," Renzulli said, and let his grip slip from Jamie's wrist to his hand, squeezing it reassuringly. "I've got this guy. And help's on the way, huh?"

For his part, Jamie's world had narrowed to the brand of fire across his throat and the acid spill of air in and out of his lungs, but he felt that grip on his hand and he squeezed back, closing his eyes. He didn't care about help and he cared even less about the suspect. All that mattered was _breathing_, and the fact that he could do it, as much as it hurt, as much as his head swam and his vision along with it. God, he would never undervalue air again. It was the sweetest thing in the world.

"Your brother's going to kill me for this," Renzulli said above him, and Jamie cracked open an eye to take in his crumbling expression. "And your father. God."

Jamie tightened his hand around Renzulli's again, smirking.

"I shouldn't have left you," he muttered. "You're a rookie, kid. I left you alone down here and look what happened."

Jamie frowned and put what strength he had left into his grip. "I'm okay," he tried to whisper. Not a sound came out, but his lips moved.

Renzulli saw, and from the expression on his face, he understood. "Yeah," he said. "Jesus. Thank God for that."

Multiple sirens were wailing in the distance, growing louder with each passing moment. Hearing them - thank God, he could hear again - Jamie rested his head back against the ground, letting his eyes slip closed, focused only on moving air.

Renzulli was hovering. Jamie could feel the concern rolling off him in waves. "Kid? Kid?"

He tightened his hand one more time. _Okay_.

At times like this, it might have been easy to picture himself in his very own Gieves suit, owning a courtroom or striding down Fifth Avenue like he owned the city itself. But even now, with his throat a torn mess and Renzulli crouched protectively over him and the sirens ever louder in his ears, he was a cop.

Just like his grandfather. Just like his dad, and Danny, and Joe.

And peering down at his partner, Renzulli had no idea why he was suddenly smiling.

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><p>P.S. - Reviews = love? :)<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

**Breathless, pt. II**

**Author's Note:** Back by popular demand! Thanks to everyone who reviewed this "one-shot" (seriously, what was I thinking?) and requested a follow-up piece to see the family's reactions. Sadly for me but happily for you, this has become a very long follow-up, so I've broken it into a couple of updates. There will definitely be a part III and there may even be a part IV, depending on how things shape up. I did try to approach this delicately, as I didn't want the events of this story to overlap too much with anything I've already done. I think being backed into some extra creativity helped me strike a good note here, and I hope you agree. This one's still for Lilynette who inspires me all the time!, but I hope everyone enjoys!

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><p>From the day he had first accepted the position of Police Commissioner of New York City, Frank had known there would be a hell of a balance to strike. Several close friends who knew him too well had pulled him aside, advising him to think the better of the job, their concerned eyes filled with warnings of the land mines, the endless politics, the demons, the tightrope act. "It sounds great on paper, Frank, really," they had said earnestly. "But you're not a political guy. You don't want the bullshit this job's gonna bring. You can do good work without being in the corner office."<p>

But for his part, he had seen the vast possibilities that had been under his own father's control as commissioner, and the almost limitless potential to do good. He was humbled by the incredible opportunity the job afforded him to help his city shine and make a positive impact on the lives of everyone she harbored. Yes, he knew the corruption would seek him out like a sickness, and sure, he understood that the politics and the crushing responsibility would weigh him down like a collar of iron. But it was worth it, to be a guardian and protector. He would put up with it all to serve his city in such a beautiful, fulfilling way, and to know that his were the arms in which New York and its people could rest.

It would have been nice, though, if someone could have warned him about the parties.

Not that Frank Reagan didn't enjoy a good party; no, quite the opposite. He had cut a rug at many a fine family affair, and few things in life had given him more pleasure than to attend a glitzy dinner with his beautiful wife aglow on his arm. But anymore, most of the parties he was invited (if not obligated) to attend were just another part of the spectacle, and he dutifully slipped on his dress blues and fixed a smile to his face, forcing himself through the paces of handshakes, cocktail party chit-chat, and shop talk from politicians who had never even seen the inside of a courtroom, let alone a police cruiser.

"All part of the job," Garrett would always say with a mouthy grin and a hearty clap on the shoulder when Frank would leave the office for yet another mindless evening of mingling. "Don't you love it?"

The parties were always more tolerable when he could coax Erin into accompanying him, but he hadn't extended the invitation on this night. It was almost Christmas, after all, and he wanted her to use the rare day off for some of the things she always bemoaned never having the time for - baking cookies, for example, or spending an afternoon window shopping on Fifth Avenue with Nicky. Besides, as parties went, this one hadn't been particularly bad. It was hosted by Dr. and Mrs. Augustus Taylor, of Lord & Taylor fame, within their lovely old brownstone near Gramercy Park in lower Manhattan. He found himself more entranced by the charm of the old architecture and sweeping lines than the thick holiday decorations and endless stream of empty suits and sparkling dresses, but it was still a relatively lighthearted affair. He moved through the motions as he was expected, shaking hands and making small talk, and as usual, he managed to contain his sigh of relief as the clock hand crawled its way toward midnight.

Pulling out the worn joke about turning into a pumpkin, Frank said his goodbyes quickly and nodded to his body man, Jim, as he made his way to the door. The dress blues were starting to get uncomfortable, it had been a long day, and he was ready to look forward to a soft bed and the luxury of only a half-day in the office for Christmas Eve.

Crime knew no holiday, after all.

Jim held the heavy oak door for him, then closed it behind Frank as he stepped out onto the wide porch. "Leo is bringing the car around, sir."

"That's fine." He rubbed his gloved hands together against the cold chill of the night.

"Would you prefer to wait inside?"

"Oh no, this is fine." He wouldn't go back inside if King Kong himself hung a right off of East 22nd and came lumbering down the sidewalk towards him, but no need to tell Jim as much.

He seemed to understand anyway, based on the slight smirk he was wearing. "Yes sir. Actually quite the nice evening."

And it was, Frank realized, now that he could drop his mask and take a deep, satisfying breath. The street was quiet for New York, with most of the party guests still enjoying the fully stocked bar inside. The music and conversations were muted where he stood, and he wrapped a hand around the wrought iron railing at the edge of the porch, treating himself to another taste of the quiet night air. It was so rare he had a moment like this. The trees, their leaves long gone, were skeletons against the warm browns and grays of the old stone around him, and the lines of street and railing were clean and simple, glowing in the warm cast of street lamps. Winter was cold and fresh on his tongue, and the sky above him was brilliantly clear for New York, where the city lights typically washed the stars away. He could even see some twinkles tonight.

Christmas Eve... or close, at least. And it was going to be a good Christmas this year. He had already decided that. The last two hadn't been what he wanted. They were too sad, with Joe gone. This year, it was going to be different. Pop had set his alarm for six a.m. in order to start cooking up the ridiculous spread of food he had planned, and with Linda's and Erin's graceful touches to help, he knew the meal would be unparalleled. He himself had sprung for a beautiful douglas fir Christmas tree that Nicky, Jack and Sean had helped to decorate the weekend before, and he had called for the entire family to be over no later than five o'clock that night for the festivities and holiday traditions to begin. They would be the family that they were this year, and they would revel in each other, and they would know that Rose and Mary and Joe were looking down in love.

"Hell of a night to forget my gloves," a familiar voice sighed behind him, and Frank turned to see Garrett stepping out the door, bouncing up and down a little against the cold. "Is Leo bringing the car?"

"He is."

Garrett grinned. "How'd you like the dog and pony show in there?"

"Typical. I did enjoy seeing the lieutenant governor's wife working on buttering up the CFO of Avon."

Garrett's smile broadened, and he moved to speak when the shrill ring of his cell phone interrupted them. Garrett patted himself down for it before discovering it buried deep in the front pocket of his wool overcoat. Freeing it, he held it up and squinted at the screen. "Aw, shit."

Frank lifted his eyebrows, curious, but before he could ask Garrett had the phone to his ear, trotting down the steps to the sidewalk. Frank watched idly, knowing he would be briefed in time if it was anything he needed to worry about. Though he couldn't overhear the conversation from his vantage point, his attention sharpened when he noticed the lines of Garrett's shoulders tensing, and the way he looked up and down the street, as though grounding himself on a map.

As Frank took a step closer, he heard a siren, then two, begin to wail in the distance, cutting the night. He wondered idly if they were a bad omen.

He was near enough to hear Garrett now. "...any detail at all? Okay. Okay, yeah. Keep me posted." When he ended the call and turned around, Frank was on the top step, watching him. He tried to read the grim, guarded expression on his deputy's face. "What've we got?"

A third siren, then more, their wails overlapping to where he couldn't pick out how many he was hearing. They were south and west of him, moving east, and his heart sank with the rise of their distressing harmony.

The job was calling, and it sounded bad.

"Sir," Garrett said, and there was nothing of that earlier good humor about him now. It was almost hard to hear him over the sirens.

"Tell me," he said simply, firmly.

"We've just gotten a report of an officer down."

Frank couldn't help but recoil a little at the words, then forced himself to steady, swallowing down the sudden, dizzy chill of dread that those words pulled from his core. _Officer down._ And on this day, of all days. He took another deep breath of the cold air; grounded himself. "What detail do you have?"

"Dispatch took the call only about a minute ago. Officer down, suspect in custody." He waved his hand in the direction of the sirens. "17th and Sixth."

Frank blinked, surprised. It was five minutes away, if that. "Let's go," he said simply, and nodded at the black SUV that pulled up to the curb at that moment, Leo hopping out.

"Sir?"

"That can't be more than six blocks from here. Do you know the situation?"

"No, they had no further detail yet. Sir," Garrett protested again, even as Leo opened the back door for Frank. "Are you... sir, are you sure you want to go on scene?"

"Those officers are my officers," he said simply. "And this city is my city." He stepped up to the car, then offered Garrett a flat smile over the top of the door. "Let's go."

It was the final word, and moments later they were both in the back seat, lights and sirens on, cutting a smooth path through the darkness towards 17th Street and Sixth Avenue. Garrett was back on his cell phone, altering the on-scene commander's team that they were on their way. Frank simply stared out the window, seeing his own reflection in the glass as New York City flashed by, touched by the cheer of tinsel in windows and Christmas lights wrapped around shade trees. But when he caught his own eyes in the reflection and saw the grief there, he quickly turned away, clearing his throat and arranging his features into something a bit more stoic.

He was thinking of Joe, of course. He was always thinking of Joe.

Already this year, he had buried three officers, one from a heart attack suffered on duty and two others from illnesses related to 9/11. He wanted no more weeping families. He wanted no more coffins draped in the green, blue and white of the NYPD. He couldn't bear the thought of another child losing his father, or...

...another father, losing his child.

And on this day, of all days. This night, of all nights.

"Sir," Garrett said quietly, and he shook himself loose of his dark thoughts, putting his attention back on the scene outside his window. They had moved past the police barricades that had closed 15th Street, and there were so many police cars now that he could barely see for the blinding flares of red and blue, streaking the darkness in vivid, garish color. When they finally stopped at the intersection of 17th and Sixth, stepping out onto the pavement, Garrett had his cell phone pressed to his ear again. He listened, then gestured toward a small, nondescript building, almost lost in the darkness and police tape. "There," he said, and Frank had no sooner turned towards it than he heard a terrible scream.

Every officer around him spun toward the sound, and thus they were all watching as four uniformed cops wrestled a huge man in a black trenchcoat out of the building's front door, struggling to keep him under control. He was twitchy and dripping in sweat, gritting his teeth and screaming about something Frank could barely make out as he tried to twist away from the officers' firm grips.

Next to Frank, Garrett let out a low whistle. "How high is _that_ guy?"

Frank moved closer, weaving his way through police cars as the officers got the thrashing man inside a squad car. "That the perp?" he asked the closest one.

"Yessir," the young officer replied, without even looking over.

Frank left them to their work, turning to size up the building and trying to ignore the heavy weight of sickness and dread in his stomach. As he did, the on-scene commander stepped out, disheveled, his long face pinched with worry. Frank studied him, trying to pull the man's features from his memory. He knew most of the district commanders in the area, but he doubted any of them were working a graveyard. He was pretty sure he didn't know this young commander, then became convinced of it when the man's eyes found his and his jaw dropped. "Sir - uh, Commissioner," he managed. "I wasn't advised that you were coming to the scene-"

Garrett cleared his throat, and the commander glanced at him nervously before putting his attention back on Frank. "Sir," he said again, taking a deep breath. "The EMTs are with him now."

Frank nodded grimly. "He was shot?"

"No, no sir. He and his partner were clearing the building, and the suspect surprised them." The commander's shoulder radio squawked, and he lifted a hand to it absently, turning down the volume. His eyes never left Frank's, even as other officers pushed past them and gawkers leaned out of the lower floors of the apartment building on the corner, snapping photos with their cell phones. "Sir, your son was attacked from behind. The suspect had an electrical cord and strangled him with it. We're still putting all the details together, but we know that much. Your chief of detectives is on the way."

Frank looked at the commander; frowned. It was strange, but he almost thought he had heard the man say "your son." He had to be hearing things.

Next to him, Garrett opened his mouth, then closed it, brow furrowed. He looked as perplexed as Frank felt.

The commander was still watching him worriedly. "We still need to talk to his partner," he added, as though guessing that Frank's puzzlement came from the lack of details available in this frantic, chaotic aftermath. "He's over there." The commander nodded his head to the left, and still confused, Frank followed the gesture.

To Renzulli, who was standing gray-faced on the fringes of the activity, his hat clutched in his hands.

Renzulli.

_Renzulli_.

"Jesus Christ," Garrett blurted. "It's Jamie?"

Frank turned stunned eyes on the commander, whose own expression had blown wide with horror. "Sir, I - I apologize - I thought you knew-"

Frank pushed past him. He was on autopilot, his body taking over where his mind could not. He strode into the dark building, pushing past cop after cop as he moved towards the sound of the commotion, but his mind was still on the sidewalk outside, still struggling to process the words, clunky and incapable of understanding what he'd been told. His stomach was gone, leaving nothing but a cold hole behind, and fear spilled through him, top to bottom.

This couldn't be happening again. It wasn't. It wasn't true. They were confused, that was all.

This wasn't happening.

_This was not happening._

He was running by the time he got to the storage room in the back, running like he hadn't run in years, until he saw the brilliant flashlights of the officers inside the room and stopped himself in the doorway, grabbing hold of the frame. The responders closest to him snapped up at the sudden sound, startled at first and turning their lights on him. They backed down quickly when they recognized him, a quiet murmur rippling through their ranks. Even those who didn't know his face knew the brass of his uniform, and they parted for him quickly, clearing the way to the center of the room where a cluster of EMTs hovered.

He drew himself up and forced himself to look.

There was an officer, sprawled on the floor. Two of the EMTs were on the ground with him, one at his far side and another at his head, while the others hovered close by, helping where they could. Several police officers were also part of that tight circle, their flashlights trained down to give the paramedics light by which to work. Their movements were controlled and efficient, belying the tension in the room that was even thicker than the darkness that hovered on the edges of the flashlight beams.

He didn't want to go closer. My God, he didn't want to go closer.

But he did, stepping forward. He had to. Part of him had no idea what he would see, and another, sharper part knew and was absolutely terrified by it.

It was quiet, so oddly quiet. Between that thick silence, the tension in the air and the horror movie lighting, Frank was hyper aware of his own tight breaths, of the pounding of his heart, of his shaking hands.

Somewhere down in the deepest part of himself, he found the strength to look.

And he saw Jamie, lying there on the floor.

His Jamie. His youngest son. His baby.

He was pale and still under the brilliant lights, his bruised eyes closed. The paramedics had fixed an oxygen mask over his face, and they were working on a cervical collar now. One medic, a big guy with blond hair, was crouched behind Jamie's head, his huge hands resting almost tenderly against Jamie's temples to keep his head and neck stable. They had opened his collar and shirt, removing his tie, and Frank could see the telltale signs of standard trauma checks - an EKG machine, blood pressure cuff, IV tubing. But when his eyes saw the violent, angry line furrowed across Jamie's throat, he could see nothing else.

A ligature mark. A strangulation mark.

Someone had tried to kill his son.

"Here," the first EMT said, extending the neck brace to his partner. "We need to secure his neck in case there's a fracture we don't know about. Officer?" he added, leaning forward over Jamie's still face. "Jamie? Can you open your eyes?"

His eyelids fluttered, but didn't open.

Frank sank to his knees, never taking his eyes from Jamie's face. One of Jamie's hands was resting on his chest, studded with an IV drip, but the other, the one closest to Frank, was lifeless on the grimy concrete floor. Frank reached out and took it gently, engulfing the hand in both of his own. It was cold. "Jamie," he whispered. "Son?"

Jamie's eyes remained closed, but he was gasping for air, chest heaving. It looked like it might be taking all of his effort and energy just to breathe.

The words of the medics became a buzz in Frank's mind. Something about swelling and pressure and the fact that no one seemed to know just how long he had been strangled.

New words came to him, unbidden and drowning out the sounds around him. He knew them by heart; had said the common prayer every day after Mass for years.

_Saint Michael the Archangel, our guardian and protector, defend us in in our hour of conflict..._

"We've closed all the intersections between here and Second Avenue," someone was hollering. "Tell dispatch. Path is clear for the bus whenever they're ready to transport. Bellevue's standing by."

_Be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the Devil..._

The EMT at Jamie's side looked up at his partner. A fine sheen of sweat lay across his brow. "I still don't think he's getting enough air. Check his pulse ox again for me, will you?"

_May God rebuke him, we humbly pray, and do Thou, O Prince of the Heavenly Host, by the Divine Power of God..._

"Eighty-five," the blond paramedic said.

_Cast into hell Satan and all the evil spirits who roam throughout the world seeking the ruin of souls..._

The first EMT's head snapped up. "Eighty-five _on_ oxygen? Christ, turn it to one hundred percent. He's still hypoxic."

_...and guard your children in their hour of most desperate need..._

Frank tightened his hands around Jamie's, and he thought he felt a slight pressure; perhaps his son, squeezing back. "Jamie," he said again. The words sounded tortured. Could they possibly be his? "Son, please."

Jamie's eyes fluttered again, and this time they cracked open, barely slitting against the lights that shone down on him. Frank leaned forward anxiously, and he saw his son's gaze track left, eyes locking with his own. There seemed to be recognition there, but they held for only a moment before Jamie's eyes fell closed again, his chest still heaving as he panted for breath.

"We could be losing control of his airway, Ted."

"I know. We've got to go."

The EMTs had picked up the pace, grabbing their gear. Frank felt a pair of strong, familiar hands come down on his shoulders. Garrett's voice was in his ear. "Frank. They're moving him. You need to let go."

He heard, but remained where he was.

Garrett squeezed. "Frank, please. They need to get him to the hospital."

He blinked hard, swallowed, and gently laid Jamie's hand across his stomach.

Jamie did not move.

Frank was still on the ground when the paramedics used a backboard to lift Jamie from the ground, and he was gone a moment later. Frank needed a moment longer to struggle back to his feet, watery knees threatening to give out at any moment, but Garrett's strong arm braced him and pulled him forward through the dark halls, back to the controlled chaos on the sidewalk of 17th Street. He saw the medics loading Jamie into the back of an ambulance and was taking a dazed step forward to follow when one of the EMTs blocked his path. "I"m sorry, Commissioner," he said, looking nervous but firm. "You can follow, but you can't ride with us."

"Step aside," Frank said gruffly.

Garrett put an arm around him, tugging him away before he could move the EMT himself. "They're having trouble maintaining his airway, Frank," he said, his voice low and raw in Frank's ear. "The last place they want you is in the back of that ambulance if they have to intubate him on the way to Bellevue. Come on, Leo's waiting. We'll be right behind them the whole way."

He nodded, no longer capable of even words. Garrett got him back into the SUV quickly, and almost immediately they were on the move. Sirens were screaming all around him; there were police cars everywhere he could see, blocking every intersection and escorting the ambulance and escorting him, flashing through the nighttime streets of New York City.

He stared out the window at them, but saw nothing.

The sirens wailed, but he did not hear them.

The only sensation now - the only thing left - was the feeling of Jamie's cold hand in his, and he clung to that.

"Frank?" Garrett said, his voice heavy with concern.

He turned his head a little. Everything felt half a step slow, and his heart was a stone, barely thumping in his chest. "I..." He swallowed. "I need to call Danny."

"I can do that for you."

"No." He had to do this. "I need to do it."

"Frank." Garrett's voice was desperate, and Frank was grateful that he couldn't see his deputy commissioner's eyes. "He's going to be okay."

Frank closed his own.

_I can't lose another son. God, I can't lose another son._

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><p><strong>Next Up -<strong> An answer to that age-old question, "Why is Haley so mean to characters she loves so much?" No, no, I kid. That question will never be answered. **Next up for real** - Frank calls Danny. It doesn't go well.

I'm holding part three hostage. Reviews are the ransom! ;)


	3. Chapter 3

**Breathless, pt. III**

**Author's Note:** I wasn't going to post this until tomorrow, but I loved Blue Bloods so much tonight (SO MUCH) that I feel the need to celebrate. Somebody needs to write me Jamie and Renzulli painting hijinks. Oh my gosh, that episode. Top to bottom. Anyway! Here's chapter three! Thanks for joining me for this series. I really do appreciate all the wonderful support. Lilynette, this one's (still) for you. Hope you enjoy!

* * *

><p><span>Last time<span>:

"Frank?" Garrett said, his voice heavy with concern.

He turned his head a little. Everything felt half a step slow, and his heart was a stone, barely thumping in his chest. "I..." He swallowed. "I need to call Danny."

"I can do that for you."

"No." He had to do this. "I need to do it."

"Frank." Garrett's voice was desperate, and Frank was grateful that he couldn't see his deputy commissioner's eyes. "He's going to be okay."

Frank closed his own.

_I can't lose another son. God, I can't lose another son._

Now:

Across town, Danny was sitting at his desk with his tie loose and his jacket discarded, his hand in his hands.

Christmas. How could it be Christmas already? He had bought approximately two presents for Linda, and the leather gloves didn't count because she had picked those out herself and shoved them into his hands, saying, "Here, wrap these up and hope I forget all about this conversation." Unless she really, really wanted that juicer he'd picked up the weekend before, it was going to be a blue Christmas in the Reagan household.

He knew what she wanted; that wasn't the problem. He knew what his baby liked, and there was a gorgeous diamond pendant necklace at Zales that he had on hold. The problem was, it was after eleven, he was still at work, and Christmas Eve wasn't exactly his ideal schedule for finishing his holiday shopping. Maybe God would be merciful and let the place have free gift-wrapping.

"Hey, Reagan."

He stirred, turning his head to see a grande Starbucks coffee being placed gently by his elbow. "What's this?"

"Figured you could use a recharge." Jackie dropped into the seat at the desk across from him, setting down her own cup and pulling off her scarf.

He frowned. "I'm not the only one pulling an all-nighter here."

"Yeah, but my Christmas shopping's done." She winked at him over her lid.

Danny leaned back in his chair, cracking his back with a sigh. "We'd both be home now if the lab would hurry up with that DNA confirmation. Or, I guess, you'd be home. I'd be shopping with all the other procrastinating nutcases."

"I know. The lab was supposed to be done with that at least an hour ago, but you know there can't be more than one guy down there." She glanced up at the clock on the wall beside them. 12:02 a.m. "Merry Christmas Eve, partner."

"Yes, very merry."

She grinned, taking a deep drink. "Y'know," she added thoughtfully, smacking her lips. "Queen's Center is open twenty-four hours right now. Assuming we hear back from the lab soon, you can swing by the mall on your way home."

"Yes, I can think of nothing else I'd like to do. Especially on Christmas Eve." He grabbed his own cup. The Starbucks brew went down hot and smooth, easing his mood a little.

"You'd better like it, if you're as far behind on your shopping for Linda as you said. Thank God she shops for the kids, huh?"

"Yeah, no kidding."

Picking up a random pen from her desk, Jackie tapped it idly against her phone receiver, which sat smug and silent in its cradle. "Why _do_ you wait until the last minute, anyway?"

"Why do _I_ wait? I have a rather demanding job, as you might recall. You do, too."

"I mean guys. Guys in general. I've never understood why you procrastinate."

"Not all guys do that." He propped his elbows on his desk and leaned forward, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes. "Just the stupid ones."

"Hey, Reagan?" Sergeant Gormley was leaning out of his office, frowning into the bullpen. "You got your ears on?"

"Does it look like it?" he replied caustically.

Jackie made a face at him before glancing over her own shoulder. "Police scanners are offline out here, Sarge. What's up?"

"Ten-thirteen with an officer down in lower Manhattan," he replied, and though there were only a few third-shift detectives in the squad room, they all fell into stunned silence at his words.

Jackie turned to face him, her attention suddenly commanded and her voice sharpening by rote. "What happened?"

"No idea yet."

One of the other detectives stood halfway into his overcoat, gloves dangling from his free hand. "Are tours being extended, boss?"

"No word on that yet either."

"Any idea who it is?"

"Somebody out of the 12th."

Danny straightened up with a frown, his Christmas shopping momentarily forgotten. "Really," he muttered, his eyes going automatically to the silent cell phone on his desk. "Who?"

"No idea, Reagan. Not even sure what happened. Dispatch called out all the units, though." Gormley ducked back into his office.

Danny continued staring at his phone, a hundred unpleasant thoughts colliding in his head. His fingers itched to just grab the thing and call his father's cell phone, just to know, just to have his mind put at ease, but he knew better. Jackie apparently noticed his indecision, because her voice broke suddenly through his thoughts. "Go ahead and call him," she said. "Why not?"

_Why not? A thousand reasons why not, when you're a Reagan._

He shrugged, making a face. "Nah. I'm not gonna bother him. God knows he'll have his hands full with this. His office will call me if he needs something."

"Not your dad. Call _Jamie_. If you're worried."

He scowled at that. "I'm not worried. And he's working tonight anyway."

"All the more reason, right?"

He waved her off in annoyance. There was _no_ reason to worry, and that was the end of it. If a reason came along, then he would worry. Otherwise, he would never _hear_ the end of it.

Mick Johnson, a detective Danny had worked with on the night shift for a few years, came jogging into the room suddenly. He gave a quick nod of his head in greeting to Danny and Jackie but made a beeline towards the flat-screen mounted on the wall on the opposite side of the room. "New York One just went live," he explained, voice pitched high with adrenaline, and he clicked the screen over from the computer display of crime statistics in Queens to the 24-hour news channel for the city.

Danny turned, peering through the glass panels of the bullpen to stare at the screen. A cameraman was already on the scene, and the image was pitch black, all background detail washed out by the police lights. There were so many flashing beams of red and blue it was impossible to see anything else. "OFFICER SHOT IN FLATIRON DISTRICT" screamed along the bottom of the screen next to the NY1 logo.

"Maybe you better call Linda," Jackie observed, resting her elbows on her desk and her chin in her hands. "In case she sees this, you know?"

He hesitated. It wasn't bad advice, but chances were she wasn't up anyway. "I don't know. A call at this hour would probably freak her out even more." He turned away from the screen, resolved. "If she's awake and sees it, she'll call me. If not, she's better off."

Jackie's desk phone rang suddenly, and she glanced at the caller ID. "The lab, thank God," she sighed, and snatched it up.

Danny smiled a little and swiveled back around in his chair, but the expression faded when he caught sight of the screen again, and its ghostly image of lower Manhattan. Concern welled up unbidden within him, and he tried to recall the words from a prayer his father had taught him long ago.

_My Lord and Savior, in your arms I am safe. Keep me and I have nothing to fear; give me up and I have nothing to hope for..._

He heard a buzzing sound behind him, but it didn't register in his mind as he stared at the mosaic of color on the screen. It was almost mesmerizing.

_Be present, O Lord, and at the hour of death, be our hope and our refuge..._

Jackie snapped her fingers. "Reagan!" she called. He turned and saw her holding her hand over the mouthpiece of her own telephone receiver, pointing at his desk.

He followed her gesture to his cell phone, its screen lit. "DAD" was printed in white letters.

Well. That was a little unexpected. He grabbed it without thought, accepting the call. "I see it," he said, without prelude. "I'm watching New York One coverage right now."

"Son," his father said. His voice was strained and weak. He could hear sirens and commotion in the background.

Danny hesitated. "Dad? What's going on?"

"It's bad, son."

Danny blinked. He normally prided himself on being a pretty damn good detective, but he had no idea what his father was talking about. "What are you talking about? Where are you?" He could tell his voice was growing louder by the word in the small bullpen, but it was the last thing he cared about at the moment.

"Danny. It's your brother."

He sat still for a moment, blinking, not understanding. For one endless, delirious moment, he thought his father was talking about Joe.

He wasn't. Of course he wasn't.

The world shrieked to a lurching stop around him.

Then Danny stood up so fast his chair toppled over, but he never heard it; never noticed. He had no idea where he was going. "What?" he managed.

"Can you meet us at Bellevue?"

He whipped around to the television, which had switched to a Google maps image of the neighborhood. An intersection in Lower Manhattan was pinpointed. "Jamie?" Danny whispered. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jackie, standing at his elbow and staring with concern etched deeply into her face. Gormley was behind her, his expression not much different. When had that happened?

"Dad," he said, desperately. He thought he might have been yelling, but he wasn't sure. It was hard to hear anything over the roar in his ears, like water, like rushing air. "What happened?"

His father didn't answer. Danny clutched the cell phone tighter in his hand, palms suddenly sweaty. "Dad?"

There was a rustling on the other end of the phone, then a new voice filled his ear. "Danny? It's Garrett."

Danny turned his desperate gaze back to the television again. It had returned to the same flat image of patrol cars and lights. It was the same crawl, in all caps: "OFFICER SHOT IN FLATIRON DISTRICT." He stared, not noticing the eyes of the room upon him. Nothing mattered in that moment but the image on the screen, the voice in his ear.

Garrett spoke. "They're taking Jamie to Bellevue. You need to meet us there, Danny."

And the impulse to go, to _be there_, broke over him suddenly, like plunging into unexpected darkness. It was sudden and overwhelming, sucking away the sound and leaving him with nothing but the desperate urge to do exactly as Garrett said.

Danny dropped the phone and bolted for the door.

He didn't remember getting out of the bullpen, tearing down the hallway or putting his shoulder into the main doors of the precinct. It wasn't until he hit the unexpected blast of cold December air that he remembered where he was - no coat, no keys, no phone, and for a second he tried to turn back, disoriented.

Jackie's hand closed upon his arm. He hadn't realized she was behind him. "Squad, backseat," she ordered, yanking him with a strength that belied her small frame.

Gormley was already down the steps, climbing behind the wheel. They followed, and Jackie shoved Danny in the back, choosing shotgun for herself. She had barely closed the door before the Sarge was peeling out, gravel flying, the siren and lights on full.

Jackie spun to stare at him through the car's Plexiglass divider. "Where did he say?"

"Bellevue," Danny managed. His father's words were ringing through his head. _It's your brother... it's bad, son._ How bad was bad? He'd been shot? He had a vest, right? A vest didn't matter if you got shot in the head. Had Jamie been shot in the head? Had he been shot at all? Maybe this was a dream. He'd dreamed like this, when Joe became a cop. The nightmares started when he died and had never stopped. This was a nightmare, that was all. Had his father even really called? The voice had been tortured, small. That wasn't his father's voice. His father had a voice like hot chocolate when he was pleased and like a thunderclap when he was angry. He didn't do small, or frightened.

My God, Jamie had been shot?

_It's your brother... it's bad, son._

His brother. His _brother._

"Reagan!" Jackie snapped, with the sort of tone that indicated it wasn't the first time she'd called his name.

He looked up at her blankly.

"Hold it together," she warned. "Hang in there, huh? Your family's going to need you."

His family. He patted his chest, his pockets.

"What are you doing?"

"I need to call Linda," he replied absently.

"I'll call Linda. We're almost there. Hey," she added, and put her hand flat against the clear plastic that divided them. "Breathe, Danny. I mean it. We're almost there. Take deep breaths."

He didn't remember how to breathe. He concentrated on Jackie's voice instead.

"Linda? Linda? I'm sorry, I know it's late... it's Jackie. Jackie, and hey, Danny's right here. No, he's fine. It's okay. He's right here, he's fine. Linda? Linda, we just got a call, okay? We just got a call that Jamie's been shot."

Danny flinched, violently, as though the bullet had suddenly found him.

"I don't know. I don't know. Frank called. We're heading to Bellevue... maybe, I don't know. He can't really talk right now, Linda. He's all right, we're just... yeah. Can you come? Yeah, Bellevue. Okay."

He needed to talk to her. "Jackie, give me the phone."

She turned back to him, ending the call. "I can't," she replied, rapping her knuckles hard against the divider. "Linda's on her way, okay? She's getting the neighbors to watch the kids. Hang in there for me, would you?"

His hands were shaking. He didn't know when that had started. Every breath was shallow, barely filling his lungs, and panic was stalking him in the shadows of the car, creeping up around his ankles and pooling in the latch of his throat.

He pulled in a breath that sounded almost like a sob.

This couldn't be happening. Lightning didn't strike twice. One horror movie had already come true for him; there couldn't be another. One frantic phone call, one emergency room in the middle of the night, one brother had to be enough. It couldn't happen again. And if it did happen again, it needed to be him, because he had known before and knew now that he would never, ever, survive a second time. Even now, some days the grief pressed down and his heart tore open, and the thought of anything happening to Jamie was too much to bear. No, he couldn't even think it. He'd already put one little brother in the ground. Wasn't that enough? And God knew he had sworn that day, and every day after, that he himself would be cold and dead in the earth before Jamie would ever be.

And now, look what had happened.

_Not again. Please, God, not again._

"Reagan..."

_Don't take him from us. Don't take him from me._

"Reagan!"

He lifted his head and saw the ambulance bay of Bellevue. There were police cars everywhere, everywhere, and Gormley had barely slowed the car near the entrance before Danny was out the back door like a shot, flying toward the sliding doors to the emergency room. Inside, like outside, cops were all over the place, mostly holding up the walls and corridors. Some were detectives he knew but mostly it was the rank-and-file guys, guys from the 12th, and their heads snapped around as he shot past them into the ER.

"Reagan! Hey, somebody grab him!"

But he was already hanging a tight left, racing past the admittance desk decked in tinsel, running at full tilt toward the restricted area doors. He ignored the nurses in their pale blue scrubs and the hospital security guards and the two lieutenants out of the ninth who tried to grab him, stop him. Nobody was stopping him. His brother was here, somewhere, and only God Himself was going to stop him.

"Danny!" Jackie shouted. Her voice seemed very close to his ear. "This way, Danny. Down here."

He followed, but she led him not into a treatment room but a small, private waiting room, a large photo of New York at night on one wall, its skyscrapers alive with light. A small Christmas tree was in the corner, beaming with cheerful blue and white lights. Garrett was in another corner, back on his cell phone, his face pale and expression tense. Several of his father's chiefs were there as well, their quiet conversation stopping abruptly when he entered.

His father was on the far side of the room, seated at the core of the chiefs' cluster. He stood, eyes on Danny and his face set, and Danny recoiled at the sight of his father's rumpled dress blues. It was the sort of thing his father would wear to a funeral. This wasn't a funeral.

"Danny," Frank said quietly. His voice was still rough but layered with an eerie calm that made the hackles rise on the back of Danny's neck.

He stared, and waited for the words that would end his life.

"Danny," Frank said again. "It's all right. Come sit down."

"Where is he?" His voice cracked, raw and painful as if he'd been screaming. Had he been screaming?

"They're taking care of him. Danny, he's-"

But he had already spun around, heading for the hallway again. The need to find his brother was overwhelming, like a need for air.

It was Gormley who stopped him this time, the sergeant's large presence filling the doorway. Before he could attempt to force his way past, his father's hand was on his arm, solid and firm, pulling him back and turning him until he was being held still by both shoulders. "Danny. He's going to be all right."

Something in his mind grabbed at those words, scrabbling for them, but they still didn't quite make sense. "Where _is_ he?"

"Sit down." There was no room for argument in the words, and he found himself deposited into a plush armchair a moment later. Gormely was hovering close by, watching with a tight, concerned expression, and Jackie was holding onto his arm again, her fingers digging into the muscle. Garrett was standing within arm's reach, and his father was kneeling down in front of him. Faces, so many faces. None of them were the one he cared about.

"Danny. The chief of staff was just here. He said that Jamie's going to be all right. You understand?"

_Jamie was going to be all right._ But he still didn't understand. "Where was he shot?" Was it in the chest, like Joe? How many times?

Frank drew back, stunned. "He- he didn't get shot."

That, finally, captured Danny's attention. "What do you mean? The TV... they said..."

Garrett muttered a string of obscenities under his breath and turned to talk to a pale, buttoned up female commander standing at attention in the corner. Frank's expression wavered a moment, too, warring with grief, but he caught it and rallied before it could collapse. "They got it wrong, son. He wasn't shot, he was strangled."

Danny stared. He tried to repeat the word, but his mouth wasn't cooperating. It did, however, allow him to splutter out, "The hell are you talking about?"

"It was a vagrant. High on drugs," he added. "He surprised Jamie and Renzulli while they were clearing a building. The man tried to strangle your brother, but Renzulli was able to stop him."

"It's bad?" Those words, still, knocking about in his head.

"It looked bad. But they said he's going to be all right, Danny. Do you understand?"

Jackie squeezed his arm, almost painfully. "Breathe, Reagan."

And he did, sucking in a sudden and deep breath that peeled open every pocket of his lungs that had sealed in fear, and terror. He breathed, and then he coughed raggedly, and Jackie's hand came down gently against his back, between his shoulder blades, as his father gripped his upper arms. "I'm so sorry, Danny."

Why was he sorry? Was this even real? He would know when he saw Jamie. "I want to see him, Dad."

"We'll be able to in a minute. Can you hang in there until then?"

How could be be so calm, so composed? Confused, Danny looked up at his father.

That's when he saw it.

The Commissioner Reagan mask was on, tucked neatly into place. This was his father, unflappable commander, unshakable in his decisions and stalwart in his leadership. But in his eyes, Danny saw the father he knew, the father who had not gotten out of bed for two days after they buried Joe, the father who had trembled like a leaf when Jack was born and had to be in the NICU for three days. He saw his dad, humbled and shaken, in those eyes.

"How could this happen?" Danny whispered. "Where the hell was his backup? Where was Renzulli?"

"Renzulli was the one who got him out. He's on his way." Frank turned to say something to one of the chiefs behind him, yet another in a sea of faces to Danny, then turned back to him, laying a hand on Danny's knee. "Son, I need to know that you're all right."

"I'm all right," he replied, distracted. He saw his father speak to Jackie, who nodded quickly, before he stood.

Danny's hand was clutching the bottom of his father's jacket before he even realized it had moved. "Dad."

Frank crouched back down. "Son?"

"Where's Erin? And gramps? They should be here."

"They're on the way."

"Are _you_ okay?"

"I'll be better when I see your brother," he admitted, trying a smile that failed to reach his eyes. "Like you."

"What did the doctor say?"

"They were concerned about swelling... fractures in his neck, but they think it's okay. He was pretty out of it on the scene, but I think he woke up more once he got here." Someone else was talking to Frank, and he turned a little. "Son, I'll be right back, okay?"

Danny nodded as his father stood and moved to a waiting cluster of officers. Jackie was still next to him, rubbing circles into his back. "Hey, Reagan," she murmured.

"What?"

"You doing okay?"

He wasn't sure how to answer that. Spent adrenaline was still flushing out his veins, taking with it the residual terror that had locked his muscles and stilled his heart. "Are we just supposed to wait now?"

"I think the doctor's coming. Just relax a minute, huh?"

His gaze found the Christmas tree in the corner and he had the sudden, murderous inclination to topple it over, if only he could trust his knees to take him there. Sure, relax. That was easy to do, sitting in a hospital with police everywhere, and knowing the last brother you had in the world was in there half-strangled to death because some crackhead went after him.

At least he hadn't been shot, though. Thank God, he hadn't been shot.

Danny put his face in his hands.

Jamie was a rookie. A rookie, for God's sake. He had a brain for dusty old legal books and courtroom jargon, not the streets. What did he know about the streets? What was he even doing out there, carrying a gun, walking into every pocket of decay and trouble? And how could Danny have let his little brother, the only damn brother he had left, be out there in that? There were bad people out there. Wasn't he supposed to be looking out for his brother?

Danny still had his face in his hands when he felt a stir of air as someone knelt down in front of him. Cold hands, chilled from the night air but familiar in their touch, closed over his own, and a forehead pressed against his. He breathed in, and he smelled the delicate warmth of perfume.

Linda.

He opened his eyes and saw her there, her own eyes still closed and face etched in grief, lifting in the breaths he exhaled.

He reached up to close his hands over hers, and pulled them down to kiss them.

"God, Danny," she whispered, and she had her arms around him a moment later, wrapping her fingers around the back of his neck. "It's all right," she added into his ear. Her voice trembled a little, but it was strong. "It's all gonna be all right, huh?"

He didn't speak, but sank into her embrace instead.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Stay tuned for our finale in part four, in which we'll finally get a chance to see Jamie - and the damage done. Also, Renzulli needs the Reagan family to forgive him, but the real question is, can he forgive himself? And the burning question you're all dying to know the answer to - will Danny pull a Kiefer Sutherland on that Christmas tree? :) Answers are coming soon!


	4. Interlude

**Breathless, pt. IV (an interlude)**

**Author's Rant:** Okay, am I the only one who didn't like "Leap of Faith?" I could see where the writer was trying to go with the dual soul-searching by Frank and the Girl Who Talks to God, but I really wasn't down with using the Lord as a cheap plot device. Seriously, if they're gonna go there and have God telling a victim's daughter who killed her mom, shouldn't _that_ be the miracle that Rome is investigating? Maybe this girl is the one who ought to become a saint. Also, was it just me or did Danny, Jackie and Erin all seem out of character? Jackie openly mocking the victim's daughter on the sidewalk to the point of bullying, Danny insulting Erin at the precinct, Erin becoming downright flustered over a pile of prescription medication, of all things - it was just weird, and not having the usual family elements and connections was even stranger. This "whodunit" episode was definitely a cut below what I'm used to seeing from Blue Bloods. And let's not even mention the fact that Jamie was in one scene. ONE SCENE. Are you kidding me?

But sometimes the stuff I hate is the stuff everyone else loves, so I open it up to you. Tell me, Blue Bloods fans - what did _you_ think of the show?

Anyway, as you know by now, whether I loved or hated an episode, my answer is to write, so here we are. :) I've been working diligently on the conclusion of "Breathless," but I still have a ways to go. For now, here is an interlude that will bridge us into the final chapter, to be posted very soon. This isn't my best work (definitely would be better if I had another day or two with it), but _I_ need to feel better about my favorite show tonight, so here it is anyway. I promise to respond to the many lovely reviews and messages I received about "In the Moonlight" very soon; sorry for the delay on that. I hope you enjoy!

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><p>Frank could almost convince himself that it had all been a bad dream.<p>

These things, after all, were the stuff of nightmares.

His world had stopped when he first laid eyes on Renzulli, looking somehow small in the harsh glare of blue and red lights, his face colorless. Frank was pretty sure he had stopped breathing then, and he hadn't started again until the hospital's chief of staff had walked into the waiting room, taking him by the hand and smiling. Everything between had been a blur of sound and emotion, allowing him to neither think nor act, and he had stumbled through that time like a man struck blind.

Frank could count on one hand the number of times he'd been paralyzed like that, and they all ended in waiting rooms just like this one, with panic crawling like spiders on his skin.

He remembered calling Danny. He remembered getting out what words he could before finally passing the phone to Garrett, feeling his own throat sealing closed from fear, and imagining what it must have been like to be attacked like that, attacked in the dark, no light and no air and no way out. He had passed the phone to Garrett with shaking hands, and when Garrett had finished the brief conversation ("He's on the way. Think he dropped the phone and ran for the door, boss."), Frank had asked him to call Erin and his father. He couldn't handle another call. He couldn't even manage the words.

Garrett had done it without question.

_"Erin? Erin, it's Garrett Moore. Garrett Moore, from your father's office. I'm sorry to wake you... no, he's fine. He asked me to call. Erin, Jamie's been hurt. We're not sure... no, no. But we don't know... he was strangled. Strangled. I don't know... no, we don't know yet. Erin, I'm sending a car, okay? It'll be there in ten minutes. They'll take you straight to Bellevue, all right? We're on the way there now. I don't know. I'm sorry, I don't know. Okay."_

_"Sir, this is Deputy Commissioner Moore. I'm sorry to wake you... no, it's Jamie, sir. He's been injured... yes, he's with me. I don't think... no sir. We don't know. We're sending a car for you. Yes sir."_

Garrett had been the one to get him into the waiting room, and he had sat where Garrett put him, twisting his hands together in his lap. He wasn't cold but he was trembling a little, and he couldn't think but he was praying in words than ran together and spoke not of coherence but of emotion, broad swaths of desperation and pain; trying to put to his God how his heart was being torn into strips of fear. He knew there were other people in the room with him. His chiefs. The hospital liaisons. Nurses and staff. But he saw none of them; no one until the tall, broad-shouldered doctor with a balding head and sea-green scrubs. "Commissioner Reagan?"

He was across the room before Garrett could even get out of his chair. The doctor had gripped his hands firmly, and he smiled. "Your son is going to be fine," he said simply.

They were the most beautiful words in the world.

And, closing his eyes, Frank had breathed.

They hadn't been able to tell him much more, but that didn't matter. Not now. The doctor had ducked out shortly thereafter, promising to return when he knew more. Frank had settled back in the chair again, grounding himself and taking the burden off his watery knees.

Jamie was all right. Jamie was going to be fine. Now, he could become the Commissioner again.

And that had been fine for about five minutes.

His fragile control had cracked a little when Danny came skidding into the room, wearing a look of unfettered panic that had made his own stomach twist. Somehow, Frank had managed to settle him. He wouldn't remember how. Linda had come in shortly thereafter, anchoring her husband with her embrace.

Erin had been the next to arrive.

"Dad?" The voice was a note pitched sharp and high, and he looked up immediately as his daughter rushed into the room, her gaze snapping left to right, frantic. Her hair was still mussed from the pillow, and she wore such a look of panic that he stood quickly to reach for her. She grabbed his outstretched arms. "Dad?"

"He's fine," Frank said simply, and pulled her into his chest. "He's fine." The last was murmured into her hair, and she leaned against him, her own tension and fear bleeding slowly away. Over her head, Frank saw Nicky hesitating in the doorway, and Linda rose from her seat next to Danny to hug the girl. "You both okay?"

Erin rested against him for a moment longer before pulling back, wiping at her face. Nicky caught Frank's eyes, her cheek pressed against Linda's shoulder. "Grandpa," she managed. "What happened?"

"Your Uncle Jamie got into some trouble tonight, but he's okay," Frank replied, making the words gentle. "The doctor should be back in just a few minutes."

Erin turned her head, eyes flicking over Danny. He was still bent forward in his chair, rubbing his forehead. "Danny?"

He waved his hand in acknowledgement. "Fine," he muttered, not looking up.

"Sir," a voice called from the doorway, and he looked up to see one of his officers escorting in his own father. The old man was moving with an urgency that Frank hadn't seen in some time, and Henry's sharp eyes flashed across the crowd gathered in the small room before landing on Frank and Linda, their arms full, and upon Danny, still slumped boneless in the chair. "Francis?"

"He's all right," Frank said again. He relished the words. "He's going to be fine."

"Thank God." Henry leaned against the chair Linda had vacated, his fingers digging into the plush arm. "Thank God."

Frank looked down into his daughter's face. She was drawn and pale, without the easy touches of blush and mascara she normally wore. Her blouse was wrinkled as though she'd snatched it from the floor of her bedroom, and Nicky was similarly dressed in mismatched sweats with a coat thrown over top. "Erin?"

She ran a hand, hard, under her nose. "Tell me what happened."

He hesitated.

Danny spoke. His voice was grating and harsh. "He was strangled."

"What?" She stared at him; stared up at Frank. "He was what?"

"Commissioner Reagan." This voice was new, deep, and carried with it an air of authority that caught even Danny's eyes. Danny looked over blearily and snapped upright when he saw the tall, broad-shouldered doctor standing just inside the threshold of the room.

Frank stood, and the family drew in around him - Erin at his side, Linda with Nicky pulled close, Henry still leaning heavily against the chair, and Danny slowly getting to his feet, his attention riveted. The rest of the room; the rest of the world, even, fell away.

The doctor took a step closer. "Your son is going to be fine," he said simply.

Linda's eyes closed, and a prayer fell from her lips.

Henry dropped his head, still struggling to compose himself.

Danny stared the doctor in the eye. "Tell me what happened."

"Officer Reagan - Jamie - was brought in with a ligature strangulation injury to the throat," the doctor said, meeting Danny's razor gaze with a steady compassion. "He was dealing with some pretty intense swelling by the time he arrived here, which was compromising his airway. He couldn't breathe," the doctor added. "But we've been able to get that under control without intubation, and we're running some tests now to make sure there's no further damage to his throat or spinal cord."

"Strangled," Erin repeated, the word sounding ugly and unfamiliar from her lips.

"How did this happen?" Linda asked. "I thought - Jackie said-"

Frank put his free arm around her shoulders, squeezing in a silent promise to explain later.

"Any lasting damage?" Henry asked, clearing his throat as he spoke.

"We'll know more when the tests come back, but right now everything's looking good. Preliminary X-rays showed no damage to the cervical vertebrae, and once we stabilized his oxygen levels he was able to communicate with us. He passed all the cognitive tests, so however long he was without oxygen, it wasn't long enough to cause real damage."

"He's conscious now?" Frank asked. "I don't know if he was aware of me before."

Danny's gaze snapped to his father. "You saw him already?"

"He is conscious now," the doctor confirmed. "And as soon as we finish the tests, you'll be able to see him. I'm guessing we'll keep him here for twenty-four hours under observation, provided the tests come back clear. I'll let you know as soon as that's complete, but it shouldn't be long."

Frank nodded, then reached out to shake the doctor's hand. "Thank you, sir."

"Of course," he replied, nodding to the rest of the family before stepping out.

Danny rounded on Frank. "When did you see him?"

Frank eased himself into the chair Danny had abandoned, taking one slow, deep breath at a time. "I was on scene."

"On scene?" And now it was Danny's turn to hit his knees, dropping to eye level with his father. "What do you mean, on scene?"

"I was in the neighborhood for a Christmas party. Got the call, we went." He rubbed his eyes. "I didn't know it was Jamie until I got there."

Silence.

Danny was the one to break it, on a single, choked word. "_God_."

Frank closed his eyes.

_God, indeed. Thank God. Thank God, this one hadn't ended like the rest._

This time, his son would be all right.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Coming soon, the conclusion...!<strong>_


	5. Conclusion

**Breathless, pt. V (the conclusion)**

**Author's Euphoria**: Wasn't sure if I was going to get this done tonight but I DID and I am in MARDI GRAS CONVULSIONS because LOOK:

(From EW dot com:)

**Q:** I've been a fan of Blue Bloods for a while now and have noticed a significant lack of the Jamie character. It seems he only shows up for the family dinners in recent episodes. Any idea what's going on? -Laura

**Ausiello:** Don't worry. Jamie's undercover assignment with the Sanfino family will play a big part during the remainder of the season, so rest assured you'll be getting plenty of face time with the youngest Reagan.

*FLAILS*

Which one of you is Laura? I'm buying you a car AND a pony.

I am SO excited, as evidenced my my use of caps lock. This has made my night. Possibly my spring. I screamed so loud when I read this that my father legit thought I'd chopped my finger off in the kitchen.

Jamie! And this also means I get to go crazy with fanfic! To celebrate this GLORIOUS news, have the final chapter of "Breathless." I've gotta get these done, after all, because it sounds like Blue Bloods will be giving me plenty more Jamie-infused material to play with this season. Oh my gosh, I'm going to go bonkers with this.

Let me breathe into a paper bag for a few minutes.

Okay. Now off we go to...

**Author's Note**: Here's the real one, minus flailing. :) Thanks for coming with me on this long and, I hope, satisfying journey! Big thanks to Lilynette again for inspiring this piece. If you're still alive, girl, drop me a line sometime. ;) I know that I still owe many of you responses to your messages and reviews, so please hang tight - those are coming. I haven't had much free time lately but what I have had, I've been using to write so I can bring you this. I appreciate hearing from you more than you know and your feedback is my fuel to keep writing, so thank you, thank you, thank you for that.

A note for those of you who follow my other stuff. I'm working on a special Blue Bloods piece that I hope to post on Saturday. It's called "The Life We Chose (Ain't Too Many Happy Endings)," and it will serve as both a stand-alone one-shot AND as chapter eight of "In the Moonlight." Now, you're probably thinking to yourself, "WTF?" I know, I know. The thing is, this piece is exactly what I've been wanting to do for the next chapter of "Moonlight," but it's also going to be a reworking of a scene in this Friday's "The Life We Chose," so I want to post it two different ways so fans can enjoy it whether they follow "In the Moonlight" or not. One piece of writing, but posted in two places on FF dot net. It'll make sense when you read it, I promise. For those of you who follow me as an author (and I adore you and squeeze you to itty bitty bits for that), you'll see two updates in your inbox, but please be aware that it will actually be the same thing.

Enough of me being weird and making stuff hard. Thus concludes the world's longest author's note. Thanks as always for your support, and I hope you enjoy this final installment of "Breathless." Sad to see the story end, but more to come, as always. :) If you enjoyed it, please drop me a review! Always love to hear from you.

* * *

><p><em>Hopefully, you'll be fine without me by your side<em>  
><em>Hopefully, I will too<em>  
><em>Times have changed, now I don't even know myself<em>  
><em>Do I even want to?<em>

- Alex Goot, "Breathless"

* * *

><p>For Danny, the walk down the white hallway was an endless one.<p>

The doctor's words were ringing in his head, knocking about inside the dark places left empty from fear. _We've asked him not to talk... we don't want him straining his voice. Yes, he's awake. Yes, he'll be just fine._

He would believe it when he saw it. Too many times, he'd heard those empty reassurances. Too many times, people would be just fine, and then suddenly they weren't. He knew how this went. He'd been a cop long enough now to understand it.

It was only with an effort that he didn't bruise Linda's hand with his nervous grip, curling his hand around hers tightly as they walked.

He felt empty and cold, his chest the inside of a drained milk jug. An hour ago, his little brother had been shot and Danny was convinced he was probably dead. Now, Jamie was going to be just fine. Who knew what to believe? How was he even supposed to reconcile something like that?

As if she could read his thoughts (and after all these years, she probably could), Linda brought her free hand around and caressed his fingers where they dug into her palm. The movement - soft, tender - whisked him back in his mind to that waiting room, four walls and a few dozen chairs, panic serving as his own personal brand of strangulation, choking off his breaths with fear until she had knelt before him, gathered him up, and breathed with him. He had stayed with her in that aching moment, loose in her arms, safe in that familiar embrace. When she had finally pulled away to sit back on her heels, her cold fingers had splayed against his cheek and she began to speak. The first question: "What happened?" He really didn't know. The second: "Is he going to be all right?" He didn't know that, either, and he hadn't answered either one but someone must have, because she had swallowed and blinked away tears and then leaned forward again, suddenly very close, her breath tickling his ear. "Why didn't you call?"

It had been his turn to blink, confused.

"Danny. Why did Jackie call?" she whispered. Her voice was hoarse. "Why did you have her call me, Danny? Do you know what I thought?"

He had no answers. What could he say? He couldn't have opened his mouth then, trapped in the center of that terror. Words would have made it real, and he was lurching badly enough as it was in his own tumultuous thoughts. He could still barely form a coherent sentence. "I was in the backseat," he finally muttered.

"The backseat?"

"Of the squad," Jackie supplied from nearby. "I couldn't hand him the phone."

Linda sat back again and observed him for a moment, anxiety flickering in the lines of worry on her face. The fluorescent lights above painted her skin white, her blue scarf standing out in sharp relief to the paleness. "Danny," she said softly. "Talk to me."

"I let this happen." He couldn't pinpoint where the words were coming from, and yet they came. The voice was cracked, raw and sounded nothing like his own. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, letting his hands dangle uselessly. "He's my responsibility, Linda. And I let this happen."

She took his hands in hers once more, slender fingers clutching them tightly. He stared at the floor, but he could feel her watching him closely. He couldn't see his father, but he knew, he _knew_, those sharp eyes were upon him, too. "You think you're the only one in the room thinking this is your fault, Reagan?" she asked softly. She lifted up onto her knees, and one hand slipped around his shoulders, pressing against his back.

He frowned, tensing beneath the tenderness. His first, wounded instinct was to pull away, but he couldn't let himself do that. He wouldn't let himself do that, no matter how badly he hurt.

Linda continued to speak, her words gentle, mesmerizing. Her hand was rhythmic and soothing against his tight muscles. "You think your dad's not feeling guilty, huh? You think Renzulli's not wracking his brain about what he could've done differently?"

"It's not the same."

"No?"

"I'm his brother," Danny hissed. The words hurt his chest to say. "I'm supposed to look out for him. Or if I'm not doing that, I'm sure as hell supposed to make sure he can look out for himself."

"You have. You've always been there for him, Danny."

"Not enough."

"What would be enough? You going to move in with him? Drive him everywhere? Hold his hand when he crosses the street?" Danny closed his eyes, turning his face away from her, but her words followed him. "You can't keep him from living his life, Danny. You can't protect him from everything."

"I know that." As a matter of fact, he hadn't protected Jamie from a damn thing. First he'd let him become a cop, and then he'd let him run the New York streets without the instinct, without the experience. Jamie was just like Joe; nothing to guide him but big ideals and a big heart. My God, what had happened? Joe had died. Jamie had almost followed. What the hell kind of brother was he?

Linda rubbed his hand between hers. The friction felt good. His hands were still as cold from fear as hers were from the December night. "You know you're being ridiculous."

She was reading his mind again. "Yeah?"

"You're a cop, Danny." She lifted his hand to her lips; pressed a kiss against the knuckles. "You know these things happen."

"I can't..." The words were out before he could stop them.

"What? Can't what? Look at me," she added firmly, and he lifted his head to meet her clear, searching eyes. "You can't what, Danny?"

"I can't do this again," he whispered.

Her arms slipped around him, holding him tight, and yet he still felt cold. He wondered if he could ever get warm again.

Perhaps it was shock, still trembling through his system, but he was having trouble teasing apart reality from the nightmares. They had said Jamie was okay, but he knew he couldn't believe that until he saw for himself. Frank had told the story, several times now, of what he knew, and Danny was a little amazed by that. Hell, he couldn't remember half of what had happened to _him_ that night.

His desk chair, turned over.

His cell phone, hitting the floor with a crack.

Fear had washed his mind white, washed it clean, and in the shaky aftermath there were only the faintest outlines of what he had heard; how he had responded.

Well, he didn't want to remember anyway. What he wanted was to see his little brother. He wanted to lay eyes on Jamie, to settle his hand on the kid's forehead like he'd done when they were small, and grip his hand and feel strength there. He needed to make sure.

Up ahead of him, a few strides further down the long white hallway, his father walked shoulder to shoulder with the doctor. He was leading the way, as he always did. His back was straight, and his steps deliberate. He was in Commissioner mode, of course. He was ready. Danny was grateful for that, because he himself was anything but ready.

They had already taken Jamie upstairs, putting him in a room so they could watch him through the night, away from the chaos of the ER. A uniformed officer would be on the door without interruption, just for safety's sake. Family had been authorized to go back three at a time. Erin, Nicky and his grandfather were still back in the waiting room, with Jackie and Baker and Gormley and Garrett and all the others. Danny didn't even know who all had managed to cram themselves into that waiting room, which had been spilling over with uniforms by the time he'd gotten out. Three, the doctor had said. Three can come back first, and with Nicky crying silently by that point and tangled up in her mother's arms, there hadn't been a question about who those three would be. His father, and him, and Linda, who was now permanently attached to his hand.

They stopped outside the room, located near the end of a quiet hallway. The officer stationed there had been watching them keenly as they approached, but politely turned his eyes to the far wall once they stopped. The door was cracked about a foot, and a nurse nodded to the cop on guard before slipping in ahead of them. Danny craned his neck to see in after her, trying to pull apart the shadows inside the room. "Please remember, we don't want him talking for at least a few hours," the doctor warned. "He may not even wake up, but if he does, it's important he rest his throat."

"I thought you said he _was_ awake?" Frank asked.

"He is, but we've given him some medication to help him rest and relax. He may drift in and out." The doctor placed his hand on the door, easing it open. "You're welcome to stay as long as you like."

Frank took a breath, then was the first to move, stepping inside the darkened room. Danny hesitantly followed, feeling Linda's reassuring presence at his back. He strained to see around the corner, to focus on the square of white that was the hospital bed against the far wall, illuminated by a soft overhead light. He was only marginally distracted by his father, moving calmly and assuredly along the far side of the bed, stepping to its head. The nurse, dressed in quiet gray, was nearby, fussing with the IV tubing.

A hospital bed, white blankets and white sheets.

And there he was.

The person lying flat in the bed didn't look like his brother at first glance, because Jamie was never still like that. Even when they were young, during the few short years when Jamie's childhood had overlapped with Danny's last couple of years at home, the kid had never been one to hold still for longer than a few moments. He was always smiles, always chattering away, racing madly to keep up with his older brothers, and when he was about six in particular he used to fly through the house, singing to himself, laughing, a dazzling ball of animation that Danny mostly tried to dodge so he didn't get bowled over by the kid's spectacular energy. Even when Jamie slept ("crash and burn," he and Joe used to refer to it fondly, when they found the kid asleep in the middle of the kitchen floor or passed out on the stairs with his Transformers all over the place), he moved and mumbled and sometimes got the world's goofiest grins on his face, as if dreams were just as amusing to him as the real world. No matter what the occasion, Jamie didn't do still.

So was this even him?

Danny inched forward, hesitant. As he drew closer he could see the curve of Jamie's shoulder beneath the blanket, the wink of a blue hospital gown. Another step and he saw that Jamie was breathing, his chest rising and falling and providing a reassurance that Danny didn't even realize he was looking for until his knees weakened at the sight, and he gripped the cold railing of the bed, ignoring how his sweaty palms slipped against the metal. Now he could see the familiar profile of brow and jaw, and skin that was smooth and healthy and a good color. There was no blood.

Danny didn't know why he thought there would be blood.

It was Jamie. He was still, but it was Jamie. His eyes were closed, but he was breathing. He was _alive_.

Oxygen tubing was threaded behind his ears and under his nose. He looked asleep. He looked normal, except for...

...God, his neck.

Danny thought it was a shadow at first, before his father reached out and touched Jamie's cheek with the backs of two fingers. "Jamie," he whispered. "We're here, son."

Jamie opened his eyes, blinking, squinting despite the dimness of the room. He turned his head, and...

...and the mark, the goddamn _furrow_ across his neck was obvious, impossible to miss, gashed right across the front of his throat and running to either side as far as Danny could see. It was a dark shade of red, the color of old blood, twisted and deep. The sight was horrifying, and Danny's vision swooped dangerously when he saw it; realized what it was. He clutched at the rail, grateful for Linda's steadying hand on the small of his back. Fear, coldness dripped through him.

_He's not dead,_ his mind provided helpfully. _He's alive, and he's right here._

But, my God, how close had he come?

"Hey, kid," he managed, trying to ignore his own clammy hands, remembering to breathe, steadying himself.

Hearing the voice, Jamie tried to lift his head, and instantly Danny was at the head of the bed himself, leaning forward, putting his face in his younger brother's line of sight. "Hey, I'm right here," he said quickly. "Careful. Don't do anything that hurts, huh?"

Jamie smiled wearily, tilting his head as though to dismiss the reprimand. He let his head ease back against the mattress.

Danny heard Linda's voice behind him, quiet. "Why doesn't he have a pillow?"

The nurse replied, equally soft. "Just a precaution."

Jamie didn't seem to have heard. His eyes remained on Danny's, blinking slowly. He seemed to be trying to draw Danny into focus.

Danny leaned closer, realizing the drugs were probably playing tricks with Jamie's vision. He could see now faint bruises around his brother's eyes, shadows of purple and black. His stomach lurched, and he was cold again, so cold, ice water dribbling along his spine, seeping into his skin. "We're here, kid," he managed, gently. "You okay?"

Jamie nodded, just a slight incline of the head. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Frank exhaled, a long and shaky breath, and Danny reached forward to lay his hand gently against his brother's forehead.

He was warm, _alive_.

And suddenly Danny was, too.

...

For Frank, it was good to be still in the dim light of the hospital room, standing in the only place in the world that mattered. Time seemed to slow here, trapped in the murky and lulling hours of early morning. His youngest son lay before him, battered but safe, and his oldest was bending close, drawing strength from the hand that rested on his little brother's forehead. Frank would not think of loss tonight, and he would not think of what might have been. He would just be _here_, lifting in this moment on every breath, and thanking God above that he'd been given the grace to do it.

A knock sounded softly against the door. Danny didn't even move, still bending protectively over Jamie, but Frank looked over to see the officer outside the room now filling the doorway. "Sir," the officer said quietly. "A Sergeant Renzulli, sir?"

Frank nodded, motioning with his hand to grant permission even as he wondered how Renzulli had managed to skirt the watchful eyes of the doctor and their firm three-people rule. The officer stepped aside, and his silhouette was soon replaced by that of a shorter, stouter man, hesitating in the hallway.

Frank motioned him in again, exaggerating the motion so it could been seen in the darkness, even from the bright hallway. Renzulli edged forward, and as he drew closer to the bed, his eyes roving over Jamie, Frank was startled to see that his face was chalk white.

He frowned. "Tony?"

And just that suddenly, Renzulli bolted.

Danny seemed to have caught the motion from the corner of his eye, for he turned, blinking at the empty space at the foot of the bed before catching his father's eye.

"Stay here," Frank said, and took one last look at Jamie to reassure himself before striding out into the hallway, glancing left and right. "Perkins, which way did he go?"

The officer looked left, nodding at the stairwell door at the end of the hallway.

Frank nodded back and moved quickly toward the heavy door, pushing it open. He didn't expect to find Renzulli standing only feet away, halfway down the flight of stairs, his hands braced on his knees and breathing hard. Frank took a step forward cautiously, letting the door close behind him. "Tony?"

The sergeant gulped, his shoulders heaving. "Sir, I... I'm so sorry."

Frank blinked. "I'm... afraid I'm not following."

Tony straightened abruptly, leaning heavily back against the stairwell wall. His expression was screwed tight with grief, and his hat was clutched tightly in one hand, almost crushed by the desperation of his grip. He waved it in the general direction of Jamie's hospital room. "Sir, I... this was my fault, sir. I shouldn't have left him alone down there. I should've made sure the floor was clear..."

His despair bounced off the stairwell's cinderblock walls. Frank closed his eyes. "Do you have any idea how many people are trying to take the blame for this right now? There's quite the war going on."

"Well, it rests here." Renzulli thumped his chest with his fist; harder, Frank thought, than was necessary. "I did that to him."

Frank folded his arms, leaning his hip against the banister. "How many times have you cleared a building like that, Tony?"

"Sir?"

"Moved without detection, controlled the distance, dominated the area." The staples for safely and efficiently clearing an unknown structure rolled from his memory easy, almost instinctually after all these years. "You followed procedure, didn't you?"

"Yes sir."

"So how many buildings have you cleared, just like tonight? A hundred? A thousand?"

Renzulli didn't turn to meet his even gaze, but he sighed a little, pulled back from the brink of desperate emotion by Frank's calm words. "At least, sir."

"How do you know the man who attacked Jamie didn't come into the building after you had cleared the floor?"

"I don't, sir."

Frank nodded. "You followed procedure, Sergeant. You did everything right."

"Not if I got my partner... your son... hurt, sir." Renzulli shook his head, pulling the battered hat against his chest. "Not if we're having this conversation."

"I thank God we're having this conversation." Frank stepped forward, walking down the few steps until he stood eye to eye with Renzulli. "You saved my son's life, Tony."

Renzulli shook his head, unable to meet Frank's eyes. "I'm the reason..."

"You're the reason that perp is in custody and Jamie is going to be fine."

"Sir," he said desperately. "Sir-"

Frank reached out, gripping Renzulli firmly by the shoulder. "You took good care of him tonight, Tony. Nothing else I can ask for. Nothing else I ever would. Thank you."

Renzulli lifted his eyes hesitantly. They were suspiciously damp, but he nodded. "Yes, sir."

Frank smiled. "Come say hi to him. He's awake; I'm sure he'll want to see you."

Renzulli glanced past him up at the stairway door, his expression hesitant. "Sir, I don't know... it should be family right now."

Frank squeezed Renzulli's shoulder again. "And so it will be," he said, and drew him back up the stairs.

...

The doctors released Jamie from the hospital midday on Christmas Eve, after their X-rays and CT scans showed no signs of hemorrhage or edema. The fact that he couldn't make a sound beyond a rusty croak was common for the type of trauma he'd received, they said, as was the bruising around his eyes. Quite normal when someone's tried to strangle you to death. Nothing to worry about.

"The worst will probably be his voice," the doctor had said to Frank quietly a few hours before Jamie was discharged, speaking with him in the hallway. "He's swallowing just fine now, but I don't know that he'll really be able to talk for a few days."

Frank had breathed deeply. "Well... that, we can deal with."

Danny had crowded in close, his brow furrowed deeply with concern. "Will he be able to tell us what happened?"

"We've asked, but he says he doesn't remember. That's normal too," the doctor added. "He told us the last thing he remembered is walking into the building."

...

But Jamie remembered everything.

The musty, damp smell of the rooms. The quiet darkness, so peaceful. He had no idea what was hiding within its shadows.

The blur of the cord.

And the horror of not being able to breathe.

He still shook when he thought of it, but it was buried down deep, now. He knew what happened to cops who had close calls and let the department shrink get clued into the nightmares. He wouldn't be behind a desk. He was fine. It was just a dumb mistake, that was all. Renzulli had saved him; that was why cops had partners. It was fine.

He had been repeating that in his head for five straight days now. At first it hadn't been a problem at all, because in the awful and terrifying seconds after the cord had finally slackened around his neck, his world had narrowed down to nothing but air, whistling in and out through his swollen throat like breaths moving through a straw. Slowly, the world had come back to him, and slowly, he had understood the critical pieces of that world - bright lights in his face, shadowy figures murmuring vital signs above him and his father, holding his hand. He would know his father's hand anywhere and he knew it in that strange darkness, with chaos around him but his own body so still, focused on nothing but the pain of damp air moving in and out of his battered lungs.

There was a hospital after that, and he had slept through needle sticks and tests, through Danny and Erin and the rest of his family bending over him and telling him he was fine, he was good, thank God he was all right. Finally, dawn had broken on Christmas Eve morning and he woke to find his entire family resting uncomfortably in various chairs and pull-out couches all over the hospital room. He had propped himself up on his elbows, struggling to clear away the fog of drugs in his mind and the aching of his throat, and when he saw them his heart had warmed. He knew he was safe.

But things had gone downhill from there. It hadn't happened quickly, but quickly enough, he supposed. Erin had been the first to awaken and she had been all over him, which brought the rest of the family and the nurses and doctors soon after. His throat was raw and bloody, his voice didn't work, and he had finally been discharged exhausted and shaken and more than a little embarrassed by all the attention. He had screwed up, after all, and nearly gotten himself killed and that really didn't call for a hero's welcome. Christmas had been even worse, with the family watching his every move, hardly leaving him alone for a moment. He knew it was because they cared. He knew it was because they had been frightened, badly frightened by the events of that night, and of course he understood that.

But he didn't need them so close. They smothered him, and it was all he could do to keep from flinching away. He was fine, really. It had been five days. He wasn't back to work just yet, but the mark across his throat had faded considerably already, moving from angry red and black to faded yellow and green, and the bruises on his face were all but gone. He was fine.

He had been repeating that mantra in his head since getting to the house for dinner. He'd been early, beating even his father, but again, he was still off work. Besides, the only thing worse than his hovering family was sitting in his quiet apartment, trying not to hear things that weren't there, or seeing that damn cord every time he closed his eyes.

Jamie leaned against the living room wall just outside of the kitchen, reveling in the brief moment of solitude. He didn't mind being alone in the house, and in fact he rather liked it when he could hear life meandering on around him as usual, just as it was supposed to do, without him caught in the center. Even now, he could hear Linda and Danny teasing each other in the kitchen, and his grandfather's wheezing laughter. He closed his eyes as he listened, bringing his hand to his throat and massaging it absently. The boys were playing, tromping up and down the stairs. The noise was a welcome relief, holding at bay the visions behind his eyes.

"Bang! Got you, Sean!"

"Did not!"

"Did too! Don't cheat; I'll tell Dad!"

"Keep it down out there!" Linda called.

Jack came pounding down the stairs, skidding a sharp left toward the Christmas tree in the corner and barely missing Jamie, who took no notice. Sean followed after him, trucking fast and hard, but his momentum caused him to miss the last step. He nearly fell, just catching himself, and stumbling into the back of Jamie's legs.

_half a second, only enough time to blink, and he was startled and only beginning to toe the line of oh shit when his breath was gone and a cord, strong and vicious, was digging deeply into his throat_

Jamie startled badly, leaping away from the little boy like an electric shock.

_panic flared in a single, brilliant burst_

_he felt only the rapid thunder of his own heartbeat as he struggled for air that would not come_

Jamie's hip collided with an end table near the door, knocking a vase to the floor. It shattered, shards of porcelain skittering across the hardwood.

_his lungs were crackling for it, and his mind was turning inside out, swelling and bleeding against the inside of his skull_

Not even the sound of the breaking vase could yank him from his waking nightmare, and Jamie didn't snap free until he had stumbled backwards and his shoulders collided with the broad reassurance of the wall.

No one was behind him.

There was no cord, no darkness. He could breathe. He was safe.

His hands were protectively cradling his own throat, and he had no idea when that had happened.

Danny rushed in, clutching the doorway to stop himself. "Sean? Jack?" he said sharply, and his gaze that missed nothing took in the room in a single sweep - from Sean, standing frozen and startled, to the broken vase, to Jamie, and that's when his expression plunged from alarm to concern. "Kid, what-"

Jamie turned abruptly, pushing past him and not stopping or even looking up until he hit the back door, choking in the cold morning air. Keeping his back to the house, he hesitated on the step for a moment, just a moment, before he eased himself down onto the low brick wall that edged the porch, putting his back to the tree. One hand stayed unconsciously around his throat, fingers worrying his collarbone.

He'd done it now. For sure, he'd done it now.

And a moment later his fears were confirmed when Danny followed him out the door, folding his arms across his chest from the cold of the December morning. "Jamie," he said. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah. Sorry." His voice was faint and scratchy from disuse. He was still supposed to be resting it, but it was hard not to speak.

"Don't apologize. What happened?"

"Sean scared me, that's all."

"Sean scared you? Sean is in elementary school." Danny looked at him critically, and Jamie shifted under the uncomfortable gaze. Finally, Danny sighed and eased himself down next to Jamie. "What happened in there, kid?"

Jamie swallowed. "He just bumped into me. I... wasn't ready for it. Is he okay? I didn't scare him, did I?"

"Nah, he's fine." Danny kept his eyes on the ground. "Kid... what's going on with you?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing, huh?" Danny shook his head, smirking a little. "You ain't that good of an actor, Jamie. I've seen you. You can't keep your hands off your neck, you're always keeping something at your back. You don't have to act like it's a secret, okay?"

Jamie pulled his hand away from his neck and dropped it into his lap. "I'm fine."

"You're not fine. But that's okay. It's normal, kid. The first time I got shot at, I didn't sleep for a week. Cut yourself a break."

Jamie swallowed. His throat was raspy, lined with sandpaper. "Danny... I remember everything that happened, you know? And I don't know how to get past it. I can't go back to work like this."

"You'll be all right," Danny shrugged. "That's why they ease you in. Just don't expect too much from yourself, huh? It gets better."

"How?"

"Time," he replied. "It'll be hard, but you get through it. Every day's a little better."

_Then the pressure was gone, and while he would never remember dropping to the ground, he remembered a wash of pain so brilliant that he he thought for a second that his throat was cut, and suddenly he could breathe again. His throat was cut glass and he was inhaling fire in tiny, fractured gasps-_

"And then what?" Jamie asked, swallowing against the pain again. "How do I know when it's better?"

Danny smiled. "When you can breathe again."


End file.
